Lucy awoke in thin winter sunlight, lying on his side, now. The train had stopped any number of times and the compartment was empty except for a shabbily dressed man sitting on the bench across from him. The man was staring at Lucy expectantly, as though waiting for him to awaken, that they might make discourse. But Lucy didn’t want to speak to anyone just yet, and so resumed his window-gazing.
They were above the snow line, well beyond the first pass and into the deeper ranges where the drifts formed impossible meringue shapes and were painted blue and green in their shadows. The first- and second-class compartments were heated with engine runoff, but not so the third; the wind rattled the windows, and Lucy could make out his breath before him.
Lucy studied the man in the reflection of the pane. He seemed to be neither young nor old, or rather, young and old—his eyes were adolescent, full of verve and mischief, yet the flesh beneath the sockets drooped to water-filled crescents; his hair was thick, swept back in a high-crested roll, but its ink-black coloring was run through with white strands, these creeping upward from the sideburns to the crown. The man could have been eighty years old or he could have been forty. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose; as he returned the handkerchief to his coat, the visual of fingers slipping past a lapel reminded Lucy of the thieves from the night prior, a recollection which must have upset his composure, for the man asked, “Are you quite all right, boy?”
“I am, sir,” said Lucy, “but tell me, please, did you pass the night on this train?”
“I did.”
“You’ll want to check your purse, then, for there were two thieves preying upon the passengers while we slumbered.”
A look of dread came over the man. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Is it really so?” He patted the pockets of his coat and trousers; finding his possessions accounted for, he told Lucy, “No, all is where it should be.”
“You’re a lucky one. Luckier than the others, anyway. You should have seen the way these devils roamed about the compartment. It was as though the notion of consequence never entered their minds.”
“Is that right?” the man said. “They do sound devilish, anyway. And what about you, boy? How did you fare?”
Lucy waved the thought away. “Nothing to worry about there. It was that I chased them off when they came too near.”
The man leaned forward. “Did you really?”
“I did.”
“Chased them right off, eh?”
“Indeed.”
“That was very daring of you.”
“I’ve no patience for shirkers and thieves, is what.”
“That much is clear.” The man stood and bowed. “I salute you.”
Lucy thanked the stranger; he was pleased to be making such an impression. Again he looked out the window. They were passing through a dense forest, now. A deer stood in the distance, away from the track, considering the train with a sidelong glance. When Lucy returned his attention to the compartment he found the man was studying him much in the same way.
“Yes, sir?” said Lucy.
“Well,” said the man, “it’s just that I find myself wondering, at what point did you do this chasing away?”
“At what point, sir?”
“Yes. That is to say, did you actually see these thieves robbing anyone?”
“I did indeed. Half a dozen people at least.”
“And why did you not intervene before they got to you, I wonder? As one who proclaims to have no tolerance for thieves, for shirkers—for devils, as you yourself call them—I would think you’d have leapt into action at the first sign of wrongdoing. And yet you did nothing, until they came your way.” The man blinked. “Or perhaps it is that I’ve got the story wrong.”
“Well,” said Lucy, “yes, hmm,” and he sat awhile, thinking about what he might say in his defense. In the end, all he could come up with was to state that he’d been slow to act due to his being heavy-minded from slumber.
“Ah,” said the man, nodding. “Still sleepy, were you?”
“I was.”
“A foot in each world?”
“Correct.”
“That explains it, surely.”
Lucy felt he had deflected the interrogation handily, and yet he also wondered if he couldn’t identify a suppressed smile upon the man’s lips. Was this frayed individual making fun of him?
“May I ask you where you’re headed?” the man said.
“The Castle Von Aux. Do you know it?”
“I do indeed. You wouldn’t perhaps be Mr. Olderglough’s new man, would you?”
“I am. How did you guess it?”
“Poke in the dark.”
“Do you live at the castle?”
“I most certainly do not.”
Lucy thought he detected in these words some trace of pique, and so he asked, “Why do you say it like that?”
The man held up a finger. “For one, I am not welcome there.” He held up another finger. “For two, I have no inclination to visit such a place.” He held up a third finger, opened his mouth to speak, shut his mouth, and balled his hand to a fist. He sighed. “Do you know,” he said, “I was saddened about Mr. Broom.”
“Who’s Mr. Broom?”
“Your predecessor.”
It hadn’t occurred to Lucy that there’d been a predecessor. The man deduced this and asked, “Have you heard nothing about him?”
“No.”
“I find that strange. There’s a story there, after all. Poor Mr. Broom.”
Lucy sat watching the man, who apparently did not plan to elaborate.
“Won’t you tell me?” Lucy asked.
“It’s not for me to tell. Ask Olderglough. Though he’ll likely not tell you either, that rascal. Ah, well. We’ve all got our lessons to learn, haven’t we?”
“I suppose that we do,” said Lucy, finding the sentiment, and indeed the man himself vaguely threatening. Hoping to mask this feeling, Lucy casually removed his pipe from his pocket, to study and admire it. The man took an interest as well, and asked if he might have a look for himself. Lucy handed the pipe across, and the man held it this way and that. He nodded his appreciation. “This is a very fine pipe.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy.
“Very fine indeed.”
“Thank you, yes. May I have it back, please?”
The man returned the pipe, but there was an unhappiness in his eyes, as though to part with it pained him. When Lucy tucked the pipe away in his breast pocket, the man stared at Lucy’s chest.
The mountains had eclipsed the sun and the compartment dropped to a cold coloring; the conductor passed in the corridor, stating it would soon be time to disembark. The man stood as the train eased into the station.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.
“Lucy.”
“Lucy? I like that. I’m Memel.” He pointed out the window. “And there’s your new home.”
The Castle Von Aux stood a half mile beyond the station; Lucy could make out a broad, crenellated outer curtain wall and two conical towers. It was built at the sloping base of a mountain range, standing gray-black against the snow—a striking setting, but there was something chilling about it also. Lucy thought it was somehow too sheer, too beautiful.
Memel was buttoning up his coat. Once accomplished, he did a curious thing, which was to tilt his head back and speak into the empty space before him: “Mewe,” he said. “We’ve arrived. Will you come out, yes or no? I’m sorry that we argued.” Bending at the waist, he peered under the bench and made a beckoning gesture. “Come on, already. What are you going to do? Stay here forever?”
A boy rolled like piping from beneath Lucy’s bench and stared up at him. Lucy took in the boy’s features, which were a source of fascination; for whereas Memel was an old man who seemed far younger than his years, here was a boy of perhaps ten with the mark of bitter time impressed upon his face: a hollowness at the cheek, a bloodless pallor, wrinkles bunching at the corners of his eyes. When he extended his hand, Lucy shook it, but the boy, Mewe, said, “I meant for you to help me up.” Lucy did help him up, and now the three of them made for the exit. The wind was swirling snow outside, and Memel and Mewe flipped up the collars of their coats before disembarking. Only now did it occur to Lucy just who these people were.